Message One
by inkandpaperqwerty
Summary: The Black Queen is adjusting to her new life in the FBI, but there's still a lot she doesn't know. She doesn't know how to trust people. She doesn't know it's okay to be vulnerable. Most of all, she doesn't know how much her new family loves her. Thankfully, there's an easy fix for that; it's just a shame she had to get so sick before it could happen.


Reading Some Things Should Never Change before reading Message One, Left On... is strongly recommended but not required.

* * *

Garcia was sick.

She was really sick. She was the kind of sick where you couldn't breathe through your nose, and your chest never stopped aching because you had coughed so much. She was the kind of sick where you might as well sleep in the bathroom given the amount of time you'll spend in front of a toilet. She was the kind of sick where it was ninety degrees outside and she had a sweater on; a sweater which received a blanket friend as soon as she entered her batcave and bunkered down for the day.

Garcia was sick, but she couldn't call off, so she was sitting at her desk despite it all.

Sir Hotch and his knights had gallivanted off to Montana, chasing down yet another unsub in the name of the greater good, and Garcia couldn't just bail. Mostly because her conscience wouldn't let her, but also because she doubted her boss would believe her.

Which, to be fair, she wouldn't believe her, either. She was a delinquent, infamous for her distaste of the government. She was even more infamous for her hacking skills; in other words, she was known for her shortcut-taking abilities.

Who in their right mind would believe her when she called in sick?

Exactly. Nobody.

"Ugh, you creep… where are you…" Garcia typed as fast as her uncoordinated hands would let her, the fog in her brain occasionally clearing enough that she had something vaguely resembling an idea. "They said… medical school… but flunking out… that got me nothing…" She shook her head, hoping to clear her thoughts, but all she did was give herself more of a headache than she already had.

 _Ugh._ She leaned forward and dropped her forehead onto her desk, letting out a heavy sigh. _I have to find this guy. If he sticks to his serial killer schedule, they're gonna find a body tomorrow morning._ She straightened up and grabbed the glass of Alka-Seltzer, holding her nose and swallowing as much as she could without triggering her gag reflex.

It seemed everything triggered her gag reflex.

But she hadn't thrown up in two hours, and she had to do something to get rid of the aches, and chills, and snot, and coughs, and pain, and stuffiness, and muck, and fog, and _everything else._ She wouldn't be able to catch this guy if she didn't.

"Think, think, think…" She coughed into her elbow and looked at her screens again. "Okay, what if it's not medical school. I never went to college, but I can outdo anybody with a degree in computer anything. I taught myself. If this guy is smart, and the feds said he is, then maybe…" She trailed off, coughs racking her chest while her thoughts continued. _Maybe he taught himself the medical skills he needed for these specific kills. So… maybe not a doctor or physician's assistant. What if he's a nurse?_

Her inner monologue was cut short by the ringing of a phone, and she quickly pressed the button to let the call connect. "Hello?" She didn't know why she couldn't answer the phone professionally. It just felt weird.

But she definitely couldn't answer the phone the way she would with personal calls. That would be even weirder.

"Hey, this is Morgan. Have you found anything on our sleazy doc?"

She bit down on her lip. "I—well, no, I couldn't, but I had a thought."

"You had a thought?" Morgan echoed.

"Yeah. I was looking for the stuff you told me—medical school, physician's assistant, even major sciences—but I came up with nada. But I was thinking…" She started coughing again, her stomach rejecting the combination of movement and fluid. "Sorry, just gimme a second, I—" Her lungs started to spasm again, tears coming to her eyes, and she was thankful the nausea wasn't bad enough that she thought she would actually get sick.

She really didn't want to spend another five minute break in the ladies' room.

"Hey, are you okay? You were doing that earlier."

"No, I'm fine. I'm fine." Garcia cleared her throat. "I, ahem, I was thinking about how I taught myself code, and you said this guy is really smart, so—" It occurred to her halfway through her sentence that she was pretending she knew anything about psychopaths at all while talking to one of the best profilers in the FBI.

"So…?" Morgan pressed, seeming more interested in an answer than cutting her off.

"I thought… what if he's a nurse? Because, like, you said he's a narcissist, right? So, being a nurse when he knows he can do so much more would be really insulting, and then there's the whole gender roles thing. I…" She stuttered for a moment, coughed a few more times, and rubbed her chest as she continued. "I don't know. I just haven't been able to find anything… and I thought it might help."

"You might be on to something. I'll run it by the others, we can hash it out and hopefully get you better parameters to work with." Morgan paused, the sounds of a busy office in the background. "Penelope, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, really. I promise."

Morgan sighed. "There's a couch in Hotch's office. Go lie down and get some rest. It'll take us a little while to look at this new angle, and maybe you'll feel better when you get up."

Garcia nodded weakly, realizing after a second that Morgan couldn't see her. "Okay. I… I can do that. I'll keep my phone on me."

"Okay. We'll call you when we know what we need. You best behave, you hear me, baby girl?"

Garcia smiled to herself, exhausted but appreciating the attempt at banter; at friendship and normalcy. "Where's the fun in that?"

Morgan laughed, and the line went dead a moment later.

Garcia looked at the phone for a long time, and then her eyes started to drift shut. _I should go lie down on the couch like he said._ But the couch was so far, and her eyelids were so heavy, and she was in so much pain.

Only half-conscious, she kicked her heels off and tried to stand. She made it halfway to an upright position before deciding it wasn't worth the effort. Instead, she lowered herself to the floor and wrapped her blanket around herself.

 _That was so much easier than walking to the couch._

She barely had time to finish the thought before she fell headlong into darkness.

* * *

Garcia awoke to the sound of a door flying open and banging against the wall. Her body jumped at the noise while her brain struggled to decide if it was worth the effort to acknowledge the presence of an intruder and surrender unconsciousness in the process.

"Garcia!"

 _Oh, no._

That sounded like Hotch. Hotch didn't yell. He just didn't. But he was. What did she do? Oh, no, what did she do to make him that angry? On second thought, how was he there? He was in Montana.

 _Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no._

"Garcia, look at me. _Look at me, Garcia._ " Hotch was speaking loudly, holding her face in his hands and staring down at her. "Garcia, what's wrong? Tell me what's wrong."

Garcia opened and closed her mouth for a few moments, unable to form words for a full minute before slurring out an apology. "M'sorry…"

"For what?" Hotch put the back of his hand against her forehead, followed by her cheek and her neck. "You're burning up."

"Di' he… ge'way?"

Garcia couldn't make out any of Hotch's features, but he was still hovering overhead, so she supposed that was a good thing. Probably. She really didn't know.

"Garcia, can you hear me?"

She nodded with a heavy sigh and a cough.

"Tell me what is _wrong,_ Garcia."

"M'sick…"

Hotch got to his feet and stepped away, drawing a whine from her lips. She didn't want to be alone, and she didn't want to stay on the floor. Why was he leaving?

"Morgan! Morgan, call an ambulance!" Hotch appeared above her once more. "Garcia, we're going to get you some help, okay?"

Garcia tilted her head to one side, confused, and she reached out to touch Hotch's face with a little giggle. She didn't know why it was funny, it just was. He was just… hovering there. His suit blended in with the ceiling and the dark nature of the room. He was just a floating head, and it was _so funny._

In fact, nothing had ever been funnier.

"What's wrong?" Morgan was in the room now, his body somewhere near Hotch's but less defined. "Hey, baby girl."

"I don't know what's wrong. I found her like this. She's got a fever, she can't speak, and she isn't coherent." Hotch shifted Garcia so she was on her side, mumbling something about choking as he stroked her hair.

"She's not sweating. So the fever isn't breaking? Do we know how long she's been sick?"

"No. I can't get more than one or two word answers out of her." Hotch's voice faded for a moment and then came back, but Garcia got the feeling she missed something. "Breaking, but it could be a sign of dehydration." Hotch cut out again, and the next thing she knew, he was touching her face again. "Garcia, look at me. Hey, look at me. Were you throwing up?"

Garcia gave a slight nod, confused by the question. It was a weird question for a boss to ask. It was a weird question for just about anyone to ask. It was funny, but not as funny as Hotch's floating head, and the ache spread throughout her body overpowered any humorous aspects of the conversation.

"Could you keep fluids down at all?" Hotch thumbed her cheek, trying to keep her eyes open. "Garcia, this is important. Did you keep fluids down?"

Garcia stared blankly. _Why would I know? What does it matter? I'm so tired. I'm so tired. Leave me alone, Hotch. I don't want to be here. I wanna go home. I want my mom._ Oh. Ouch. That hurt. That really, really hurt. Why did she have to think about her mom? Why did she have to think about all those times her mom took care of her when she was sick? Or how her dad would awkwardly try to make her feel better by making her laugh, only to have it backfire when it made her head or stomach hurt?

"Garcia, why are you crying? Are you in pain?"

 _I'm not crying. I don't cry. I don't… except when I do. But that's not fair. That's not fair, I didn't know I was going to think about them. I didn't have time to prepare myself, I just… that's not fair. I'm not crying._

"Hotch, the medics are here."

"What's your name, hon?"

"She's been unresponsive for several minutes."

"Her name is Penelope. I don't know if you'll be able to get an answer out of her."

"Blood pressure is one-sixty over ninety-eight."

"Penelope, can you hear us? I need you to nod if you can."

Garcia thought it was pretty stupid to keep asking if she could hear them when Hotch already told them she couldn't respond. But she wasn't a paramedic, so it probably wasn't her place to judge. That wouldn't be very nice.

And that was the last thought she had before everything went black.

* * *

Garcia slowly opened her eyes, irises sliding lazily from one side of the room to the other and back again. It was all white and tan, machines hovering on either side of her and a bay window letting sun stream in from her right.

 _Ugh… I feel awful… what happened?_

She pushed herself up on the mattress slightly, grunting at the ache in her arms and shoulders. Taking another look around, she located her phone on the bedside table and grabbed it. She was clearly in some kind of hospital room, and nothing in the room was familiar except the device in her hand.

 _Maybe this can tell me something…_

Garcia unlocked her screen and winced at the notifications awaiting her.

 _37 missed calls_

 _11 new voicemails_

 _12 new messages_

Sniffing, Garcia quickly pulled up the call log, scanning the list of names before calling her voicemail. She bit her lip, squirming anxiously in the sheets, and she wasn't sure if the rolling in her gut was another bout of nausea or the result of her skyrocketing anxiety.

"Message One, Left On: August 17 at, 1:42 AM." Beep. "Hey, baby girl, we got some new parameters for you to search with. I figure you're sleeping on the couch, so I'll just call a few more times and see if I can wake you up." Beep.

"Message Two, Left On: August 17 at, 1:56 AM." Beep. "Baby girl, it's me again. I called you six times, and you aren't picking up. Is everything okay? Call me back." Beep.

"Message Three, Left On: August 17 at, 2:21 AM." Beep. "Garcia, this is Hotch. You cannot be in a government facility unsupervised, and I know you know that. No one else in the office is answering their phone, and neither are you. I don't know what you are trying to do, but I promise, it isn't worth it. Call us back immediately."

Garcia bit her lip, tears springing up in her eyes. _I guess that did look pretty bad._ She sniffed and then went silent, listening to the continuing onslaught of unheard voicemails.

"Message Four, Left On: August 17 at, 2:39 AM." Beep. "Baby girl, you gotta call us back. I really hope you're not doing something you shouldn't be, but if you are, the best thing to do is call us. We can help. We _want_ to help, okay, Penelope?"

"Message Five, Left On: August 17 at, 2:53 AM." Beep. "Garcia, if you are getting these, you need to respond. If you don't want to call, fine, but send a text or an email. It's been an hour. I know your skill level, and I know if you were up to something, we would have heard of it by now." Pause. "I'm starting to get very concerned, Garcia. Call me back. That's an order." Beep.

"Message Six, Left On: August 17 at, 3:21 AM." Beep. "Hi, Penelope. Uh, we've never officially been introduced, but my name is Jennifer. I work with Hotch and Morgan and Dr. Reid; I'm the media liaison. They just left to make an arrest, and I thought I would get your number and give you a call. Hopefully things will be wrapped up soon, and we can come home to you. Give me a call if you can, but I understand if you can't. We're not angry, Penelope, we're worried. Okay, talk to you soon. Bye." Beep.

"Message Seven, Left On: August 17 at, 3:32 AM." Beep. "Hey, it's Jennifer again. I know I just called you, but I had a thought." Pause. "I don't know how bad your periods are, but mine were terrible until I was in my late twenties. If the reason you aren't answering is related to that, just text or call me and let me know. You can tell me what's wrong, and the boys don't need to know any details." Pause. "Just… I'm here for you, okay? Girls have to stick together, right?" Laughter. "I hope you're okay, Penelope. Hang in there."

Garcia wiped her eyes, tears falling faster with every message she heard. If asked, she couldn't have said what emotion she was feeling, but she knew it was warm. It was touched, but more than that. It was being wanted, but in a specific way. It was loved, but different from any kind of love she had received in a long time.

"Message Eight, Left On: August 17 at, 3:59 AM." Beep. "Hi, uh—hi. My name is, uh, Spencer Reid. I haven't really met you—not officially, anyway, though I did bump into you on the elevator once, and I saw your Doctor Who keychain, and I was going to ask what you thought of the new series, but I—" Pause. Stammer. "Sorry. I was just calling to let you know we made the arrest. I'm waiting in the SUV while Hotch and Morgan finish up some technicalities with the local police, and then we're headed back to the station. We'll pack up, get JJ, and then we'll be on the plane headed home. Um, so… see you soon, I guess. Uh, goodbye." Beep.

"Message Nine, Left On: August 17 at, 4:36 AM." Beep. "Hey, beautiful, it's me again. We're almost packed up. I know it's taking a while, but we're moving as fast as we can. We'll be home before you know it."

"Message Ten, Left On: August 17 at, 5:12 AM." Beep. "Garcia, this is Hotch. We are on our way to the airport right now, and we will call you as soon as we land." Pause. "It's been four hours, Garcia. I am seriously considering calling an ambulance and sending them to Quantico. I don't want to do that, because if you are fine, and you're doing something you shouldn't be, you could get in a lot of trouble. Morgan said he told you to lay down because you weren't feeling well, and I have been holding out on the premise that you're probably in a very deep sleep." Pause. "If you need help, Garcia, you call 911. Do you hear me? Call an ambulance. Don't worry about money or paperwork. Stay safe."

"Message Eleven, Left On: August 17 at, 9:44 AM." Beep. "Garcia." Pant. "This is Spencer." Pant. "We just landed and—I don't think I've ever seen—Hotch or Morgan run so fast." Pant. Gasp. Pant. "We're coming, Garcia." Pant. "By the way—if you aren't in trouble—I think Hotch might murder you—so you know—no pressure." Beep.

Garcia pulled the phone away from her ear and ended the call, tears blurring her vision as she tried to look at the messages on her phone. Her lips pulled back, brow creasing and eyes squinting as she struggled not to cry.

Spencer Reid: I put us all in your phone. I hope that's okay. You can change it, if you want. It was just a bit of jiggery-pokery. I came first in jiggery-pokery, what about you?

Garcia smiled through her tears, laughing at the reference to the new show they apparently shared a love for.

JJ: I don't know if I'll be the one in the hospital when you wake up, but if I'm not, I'm glad you're okay. Text me back. :)

Garcia wiped her eyes again and opened the next message, but she was interrupted before she got more than two words into it.

"You're awake."

She jumped and turned her head to the left, where Hotch was standing in the doorway, a slight nod pulling her head down. "Yeah."

"How are you feeling?" he asked, pulling a chair over to the bedside and setting an armful of files on the floor beside it.

Garcia wiped her eyes and forced a quick smile. "I'm alright."

Hotch unbuttoned his jacket and sat down, leaning forward slightly. He stared at her unwaveringly, disbelief clear in his expression. "Garcia," he started, speaking slowly and emphasizing every word, "how are you feeling?"

Garcia put her hands on her lap and picked at her fingernails. She sniffed again and shrugged her shoulders. "Pretty awful, I guess."

Hotch gave her a tight-lipped expression and a nod. "I should think so. You were running a fever of 105.6, and you were severely dehydrated. We found you on the floor. I thought you had passed out until the doctor said there was no tissue trauma."

Garcia bit her lip, fresh tears stinging the corners of her eyes, and she stared down at her hands. "I'm sorry."

"I don't want an apology, Garcia." He let out an incredulous sort of laugh, soft and airy, like he wasn't quite sure he wanted to do it. "I want to know why. Why didn't you say something?"

Garcia squirmed slightly, once again unsure as to the source of her nausea. "I… I didn't want that guy to get away. I didn't want him to hurt anyone else."

Hotch stopped for a moment, inhaling and exhaling slowly. "I understand that, Garcia. Believe me, I do. But you have to take care of yourself before you can help other people."

Lip trembling, she tried to look at Hotch and failed. "She's dead, isn't she?"

Hotch stared at her for a moment, and then he nodded solemnly. "She had been dead for about an hour and a half when we got there."

Garcia pressed a fist to her mouth and nodded, blinking rapidly. She stared at the bedsheets and the cabinet beyond the foot of the bed, feeling a few tears run down her cheeks.

"Garcia, that is not your fault."

"Yes, it is," she squeaked, letting out a few sobs before reeling herself back in. "If I had just… if I had been awake, I could have found more information for you guys, and maybe you could have gotten there in time, and—"

"Garcia, the chances of that happening were very slim. You saw the photos we sent you. Julia Baer was a prostitute. She would have been the target of a multitude of unsubs, she just so happened to wind up with this one. She was in that situation because of choices she made, and that is her fault. You shouldn't blame yourself for a dilemma she created."

"She cre—no. What? No." Garcia's chest burned, her eyes damp with a new kind of tear. "How dare you? She did not—she did not deserve or ask for any of what he did to her. That is not her fault. It's not her fault that he's a _psycho,_ who _rapes_ and _kills women_ based on _his_ idea of their value. She is not—" She stopped suddenly, both unnerved and confused by the smile she saw on Hotch's face. "What?"

"You're right, Garcia." Hotch's voice was soft, any of the dismissiveness of his former tone gone. "It was not Julia's fault that Morrison was a psychopath, or that he chose her to be his next victim." He reached out and touched her arm, securing her attention before dropping it back down. "Likewise, it is not your fault that Morrison was a psychopath, or that he chose Julia to be his next victim. You are not responsible for the actions of another person, you are only responsible for your own. There is a lot of evil in this world, Garcia, and you need to realize that sometimes, our very best efforts are not enough. Sometimes, you can do everything right, and you still don't get the guy."

She tried to turn her head, but he stood slightly and turned her face back toward him. He sat back down and gave her a small but warm smile. "Your best isn't always going to be enough, Garcia, and that's okay. You didn't fail. You made a bad call, yes, and you made a mistake. But everyone makes mistakes, and our mistakes are not excuses for the evil other people choose to do. Our mistakes do not put the actions and consequences of others on our shoulders. It just means we aren't perfect."

Garcia hung her head and screwed her eyes shut, tears sliding down her cheeks and falling to the bedsheets. She bit down on her knuckles, tears coming faster, the intervals between sniffles growing shorter. She felt the corner of a tissue box press into the hand still on her lap, and she quickly grabbed it.

She started to blow her nose, going through at least ten tissues in a matter of seconds, and she heard a clanking sound beyond the cotton in her ears. Blinking, she turned to look in Hotch's direction, surprised to find he had lowered the bedrail and was sitting down on the mattress next to her.

He held an arm out invitingly, and she could barely manage a full second of hesitation before she latched on. She threw one arm around his neck, the other continuing to supply her nose with Kleenex, and pressed her head against his shoulder.

"Shh…" Hotch ran his hand through her hair, rubbing her back periodically.

Garcia held on tight, slightly nauseated by the strain crying put on her body.

"Garcia," Hotch whispered, stroking her hair again. "I would have believed you."

She stiffened in his arms, swallowing hard and wiping her face with another tissue.

"I know you've made mistakes, and your judgement has been less than stellar in the past, but you have a kind heart. You wouldn't feign an illness to get out of helping someone. That's not who you are."

 _How did he even—right. Profiler._ Garcia sniffed softly and let out a heavy sigh, slumped against him, saying nothing. _I don't know what I did to make him think so highly of me._ She blew her nose again, but the well had dried up. _They all think highly of me. They think I'm worth caring about._

"I'm going to get you some water, and then I'll call the others and let them know you're awake. Then I've got files to work on, and you have more resting to do." Hotch gave her a pat on the head and stood up, straightening his coat slightly and moving toward the pitcher on the bedside table.

Garcia laid back slightly, watching him move, still sniffing occasionally.

"There is one more thing," Hotch said, almost absently. "We don't have to talk about it right now. You don't even have to respond, if you don't want to." He poured the water into the cup. "You woke up once already, while your fever was still high. You said some things, and I want you to know that when you're ready, you can talk to me about your parents."

Garcia froze. She tried to think back to what she might have said or done, but nothing came to mind. She swallowed, wet her lips, and swallowed again.

"Or if you aren't ready, but you think you need to talk, and you need someone to give you a push. I will gladly talk to you. Anyone on this team would."

 _I noticed._ She looked at her phone again, the device sitting at her right hip on the bed. _They all called. They all left voicemails. They all texted me._ She sniffed softly, reaching out for the water when Hotch turned to face her. She kept her gaze downward, and he didn't seem to mind. He simply handed her the drink and headed for the door.

"I'm going to call the others, but I'll be right here in the hallway. If you need anything, just call." He grabbed the doorknob and opened it, as if he intended to leave, but he stopped in the doorway. "And Garcia?"

Garcia blinked, waiting for him to continue.

"I'm glad you're alright." Hotch gave her a smile, and then he left the room.

Garcia stared at the door for a moment, and then she looked back down at her phone. She took a sip of her water and picked up the device, dialing a number and pressing it to her ear. She took another sip as it rang, wrapping one arm over her stomach and closing her eyes.

"Message One, Left On: August 17 at, 1:42 AM." Beep. "Hey, baby girl, we got some new parameters for you to search with. I figure you're sleeping on the couch…"


End file.
